Nonfiction | March 01, 1992

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My first morning in India. I wake up at dawn and take a motor rickshaw to Old Delhi:  just any street in Old Delhi, I tell the driver. It is as if I walk through familiar photographs and movies:  men wash themselves at pumps, brush their teeth with sticks, sleep on rope beds; women prepare tea on open fires, sweeping a little space in front of doors; children run about; the continuous movement of people around carts past cows between rickshaws, seemingly without beginning and without end, contained only by two- and three-storey buildings of ground-level shops, upper-level living quarters and storage areas.

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